


But who will know this Lonely Soul?

by Alltheroads



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alltheroads/pseuds/Alltheroads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was alone, he thought about going through with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But who will know this Lonely Soul?

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-less. All mistakes are my own.

Time passed loudly. Each tick of the clock reminded John Watson that he was alive, and that Sherlock Holmes was not. He had heard the phrase 'silence was deafening' before, but only now had he understood it.

221b Baker Street has never been quieter, John thinks.

At the moment, he was sitting in his chair, just trying to get his thoughts sorted. So far, he had accomplished nothing. How could he, with Sherlock's things still littered around the flat? Even the smell of his last experiment lingered in the air.

Mrs. Hudson had suggested he clean up the experiment as soon as possible. Neither of them knew what the contents of the beakers held, or if they were damaging. The thought of cleaning it up, putting the fragile pieces of equipment made him sick.

Sherlock would have had a fit.

The red hand makes another revolution around the numbers of the clock that sat upon the fireplace mantel top.

Another minute alive.

There was a thin coat of dust on Sherlock's old chair.

Would wiping it away be admitting he was gone? Would sitting where he once sat erase the image of Sherlock sitting there, in deep thought? What would happen to John's memory of Sherlock if he began to give away the things he had associated with the man? Would those memories disappear?

He was already starting to forget. Little things that most wouldn't even care about if they knew they had forgotten. The way Sherlock held himself. Which way his hair parted. The shade of his eyes. The sound of his violin.

So quiet.

When John realised how much of Sherlock was already forgotten, he nearly did it then.

When he was alone, he thought about going through with it.

Sometimes.

He stood up and made his way towards the kitchen. His arm automatically went for the kettle which was below the counter top. Then, he filled the kettle with water, set it upon the stove and waited for it to boil. It would take longer than it should have. He put in too much water for himself.

Shoved in one corner of counter top, were unopened envelopes. It was obvious that they were sympathy cards. Did people really think they helped? It was just a stupid card telling him how sorry they were for his loss. Right. Sure, they were. No one gave a damn about Sherlock in the end. No one knew him like John had.

Finally, the water was boiling, and soon, he was blowing his steaming beverage. John hadn't had anything to eat today. Truth be told, he had forgotten to. He walked back over to his chair and slumped down in it.

Tea was not helping his mood. John didn't think that tea even tasted this way. Before, he had enjoyed it's taste, the warmth it had provided. It used to be so comforting. Why was nothing helping him? Was it because he couldn't decide whether he wanted to remember everything, or nothing at all?

Then came the inevitable thoughts.

He still had his gun. It was still there, in his bed side table. 

John was so alone. It wasn't that he wanted to die, it was that he was uninterested in living. He didn't have a purpose anymore. All he had were these haunting thoughts.

When Sherlock said that alone was what protected him, when he said that Mrs. Hudson was just a land lady, John knew it was all a lie.

What if he had stayed with him, instead of falling for trick? John knew that Sherlock wasn't heartless. So then why, god, _why_ had he thought that Sherlock was when he said those? John knew the truth. Why didn't he see it then?

What if he had been fast enough? What if he didn't take that extra moment, that one single second before turning around and taking the cab back to Bart's?

What if John didn't listen to Sherlock, didn't stay right where he was, and tried to help his friend out?

He should have done. He should have ran up those stairs and pull Sherlock off of that damned roof. He probably could have.

Or maybe he could have done something more to convince him. What did he say that day? He can't remember what he said. But he does know that he didn't say the right things.

Why didn't he see that Sherlock was so bad off before?

Sherlock had saved him so many times before, and John couldn't save him this one time. John couldn't protect Sherlock from his own demons. He should have been able to. He should have, but he didn't. Couldn't.

It doesn't matter now, does it?

All these what ifs, maybes, and buts didn't do anything. Nothing would.

John is thinking about going through with it.

Who would be affected if he was gone?

Harry?

Harry doesn't care about him much, she barely even speaks to him now. She might pretend that she cared, at the end of it all. What would she say? She wouldn't be so bad off without him.

Mrs. Hudson?

Mrs. Hudson would miss him dearly, he was sure. Losing two tenants in one month would be something awful for her. But she had her friends. She wouldn't deal too terribly with it either, right?

Mike?

Lestrade?

His friends?

John wasn't delusional. People would mourn him. For how long, though? Really?

To them, John was just his friend. They didn't understand him like Sherlock had. That was the problem. How do you move on from feeling whole, happy, and understood, to having none of that at all?

He asked Sherlock for one last miracle. Just one more. Because, really, that's what it was. Looking back, John realises he's already had miracles happen to him before. Being shot didn't kill him. He met Sherlock.

It seems like he's run out of them.

Sherlock's not coming back. There are no more miracles, so he thinks about going through with it.

John bit his tongue hard. No, he couldn't do it. Even after all was said and done, he didn't want to die, not really. People were faced with death everyday. Everyone loses someone special. Why should John get the easy way out? No, he would live alone in the silence.

Another month alive.  

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are still waiting on The God's Mistake- I'm sorry! Should be updating soon.


End file.
